


Danse Russe

by godsandstars



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt John Watson, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:18:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godsandstars/pseuds/godsandstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after Sherlock's fake suicide, he returns to Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Danse Russe

_I do not own BBC Sherlock, obviously._

()()()

Danse Russe

()()()

The most prominent deduction I make when entering the flat isn't even a real deduction, at least by my standards. What greets me is as obvious as a slap in the face.

John hasn't been boding well. I know this immediately because the flat is still in much the same shape as I left it three months ago. Yet I know for a fact that John is still living here. My connections with the homeless have kept me well-informed of his whereabouts, habits, and yes, even his meager attempts to "date". I know that my general inability to keep things in an orderly fashion annoyed John. I know that my "death" upset him greatly. This allows me to come to the conclusion that John has left the flat in its original state because he hasn't let go.

I take some time to ensure that my observation is indeed correct. The freezer still yields three fingers – yes, the nail biter – the same ones he had shouted at me for approximately six days before my fake suicide. There is, at least, milk, although that was not something I found necessary to have but John wouldn't drink his tea without it. The cupboards have only the bare minimum for human survival as far as food is concerned.

I dig deeper. My books have collected dust, and my skull is missing, although this isn't a surprise to me. Mrs. Hudson always hated my friend. My violin is laying on the table in its case, next to John's computer. There are finger trails through a thin layer of dust, and I open it to inspect the violin itself. It too has fingerprints on it. I meticulously clean my violin after each use, so obviously, John has touched my violin. The lack of dust on it suggests that it has been recently.

This above all things confuses me the most. Sentiment has never been my strong suit, no. But this...this reaches beyond sentiment, to something else. The word is stuck in my mind, and I close my eyes to find it.

Nostalgia. Not quite a synonym. I see the definition clearly. "Pleasant remembrances", or something of the like – I shake my head to rid myself of the thought. I do not want to think of John fondling my violin because he _misses me_.

I close the case. I move on to my bedroom. It smells stale – I cast a glance over my bed, my dresser, and open my closet to find everything untouched and as I left them. Interesting. John touches my violin but leaves my room alone, although after a second thought this isn't surprising either. I didn't spend much time in here.

I hear the door, and know that it is John. I have thought over our exchange many times, but it always ends in John reacting poorly. I take a deep breath, check my pulse. It is faster than normal, which I find slightly annoying. I don't get nervous, but I suppose you can't argue with science.

Shuffling in the kitchen, the sound of water filling a kettle. I consider my options. I can, perhaps, escape through the window and try another day. But, I know that that would be counter-productive, and I would probably break at least four bones in the process, which would most likely hinder my activities for the next six to twelve weeks.

I'm stalling, and it's not acceptable. I walk into the kitchen, bracing myself but not sure for what. I'm completely uncomfortable, because I know that I have walked into a situation that I cannot control.

John's back is to me; he is standing at the stove waiting for the kettle to boil. He has a cup, milk and sugar laid out on the counter. The spring weather has apparently caused him to decide on a rather boring gray polo shirt instead of one of his ridiculous jumpers. He's wearing jeans and shoes that I automatically label as "date-shoes", although John doesn't give off the air of someone anticipating a date.

I realize I should probably indicate my presence before he turns and finds me staring at him. I don't think that would help my case.

"Hello."

John jumps and spins around. It is almost amusing, but I remind myself that John probably thinks he's looking at a ghost, if he believes in such things.

He opens his mouth, presumably to say something, but nothing comes out. That is, no actual words come out, no – only a strange squeak. Then his face goes startlingly white, and blank.

And then, John falls to the ground.

()()()

It is approximately forty-five seconds before John comes around. As he is the doctor and I am the consulting detective, I was unsure what to do. I settled to kneeling down and ensuring he wasn't bleeding before checking his pulse. Satisfied he was alive, I slapped his face, albeit hesitantly. This really isn't my area.

"John."

No response, so I slapped him again, with more purpose. That did the trick.

His eyes open, and he doesn't look at me straight away. I calculate that he is unable to focus and probably can't remember what happened, yet. I give him about fifteen seconds before he does.

It is in fact thirteen seconds before his eyes find me and his face pales once more. I almost fear he will faint again, but that is two times I have been wrong in quick succession. I do hope I'm not losing my touch.

"Sher-"

He can't finish even my name. Poor man. I stand up to full height and watch him warily. Perhaps my reappearance has permanently addled his brain. I quickly go over the situation in my mind: John sees me, faints, comes back, can't speak. Well, he was never so well-spoken before, and three months without any intellectual stimulation can do horrible things to one's person. He's still on the ground and is making no effort to move yet. I decide to speed things up and stoop to offer my hand.

John stares at me. Really, it's quite annoying. I have never been the most patient man but I try to see it from his eyes. I mentally scoff at myself. I do not honestly care how it looks from his perspective. I'm not here to make him feel better, although I will be shocked if he doesn't make me try. Once he regains control over himself, of course.

After twenty-one seconds – an age, I tell you – John finally takes my hand and allows me to assist him up. He brushes his jeans off, tentatively, and locks eyes with mine once more.

I lift an eyebrow, attempt a smile. Not my best effort. I settle on breaking the silence.

"I'm here."

Not my best – I flinch a little at the awful one-liner.

"Perhaps we should bring your tea into the sitting-room?" I suggest, and relax a little. Yes, I should allow him to be comfortable while we do this.

John nods, and I leave him to finish his tea and settle myself comfortably in my armchair. I wish there was a way around this inevitably emotional transaction.

It is too long before John joins me. He lowers himself into the armchair slowly, not taking his eyes off me. His face is uncharacteristically slack, and I have a small shred of hope that this won't be as difficult as I imagined.

I incline my head, giving him permission to start.

But he doesn't. He simply stares, and my patience is wearing thin.

"John-"

"No."

I stop myself abruptly, taken aback. The first full word he says to me is 'no'?

I sigh, completely aware of a pain in my chest that I can't explain. Later I will examine it, but right now I have to focus. John's eyes look away from me; he is suddenly interested in my left shoe. He sighs too, and I allow myself to fully observe his figure. He's lost weight, and his prematurely aged face is no longer slack, no: it is in danger of crumpling, which in my experience has never ended well for anybody involved.

John takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again.

"Sherlock, can't we just – I mean, can't you -"

This ridiculously formed sentence comes to an end because John covers his mouth with his right hand. His nails are bitten to the quick, the ring finger red from biting too deep. He has picked up this bad habit post-death.

This display has caused something odd to happen inside of me. The tightness in my chest has manifested into an emotion, I think, but one too small to name yet. But somehow, I know I've felt it before -

"Sherlock."

I realize I haven't been looking at John for at least seven seconds, but instead at the window. Such a slip in my mental awareness is quite extreme because this requires me to physically turn my person to do so. I don't turn to look at John immediately because I observe the window is dusty, yet I can see hand prints. John's hand covered that windowpane, and I can suddenly imagine the scene clearly. I can imagine John staring into the street, cup of tea in hand, leaning into the window in hopes he could perhaps catch sight of my shadow trailing before him -

"Sherlock-"

I turn to meet his gaze. His mouth falters, his eyes plead with mine.

"John, I know you have questions," I say.

His face goes slack once more. I feel my eyebrows knit in confusion, and again I can feel that nagging sensation in my chest. Without thinking I grip it, as if such a feeble action could ease the pain. Is it pain? I can't quite tell, and I don't have time to think about such trifling matters.

"I don't want answers, not really," John says quietly.

He stands up, walks toward me slowly. I can almost envision the dust stirring around this movement. I wonder what he's been up to these three months that my connections couldn't supply. I wonder if -

"I just want to know if you're going to stay."

John is before me, and I look up to meet his eyes. I open my mouth to speak, something that usually comes so naturally to me but now I cannot seem to find the words. John's face twists into something even I can recognize: pain. I wonder if it is accompanied by the twisting feeling in his chest, too. I wonder if this is how people relate.

"No, don't answer that, actually. I can't bear it."

John steps back, sits back down in his chair. I take this opportunity to calm my mind, which has begun to race at an alarming rate. I close my eyes, find the emotion that is threatening to make me lose control, and push it back.

I push it so far back, it disappears completely.

Now, I can breathe. I open my eyes and smile slightly, pleased I could accomplish this so easily. John is staring at me, his mouth hanging open.

"Do close your mouth doctor, you look as ridiculous as an animal in a petting zoo," I ramble, not making any effort to put the bite behind my words. I look at the nails on my right hand. They're in need of trimming.

"I can't believe you," John all but sputters.

I lift an eyebrow in his direction, too lazy to actually look at him.

"Seriously, Sherlock, you're insufferable. How on earth did I put up with you for so long?"

"Sentiment?" I drawl, mostly in jest.

John doesn't take it that way. He puffs his chest, giving off an amusing impression of a puffer fish. He purses his lips, shakes his head. So expressive, John is. So easy to read.

" _Sentiment_? You took the mickey on me, you did, with your bloody _stunt_. I _cried_ at your bloody funeral. I wouldn't be surprised if you were watching."

He's breathing quite heavy, and I decide to count his breaths in case he brings himself to hyperventilation. He seems the type to allow such a thing to happen to him, doctor or not. I don't reply, hoping he will have his little rant and be done with it. I will prove him wrong, in the end.

"Three months I've been here, in mourning. For nothing. Bloody _nothing_."

He stops talking, and for the first time since he started his raving I look at him. He's teary, red-faced, full of emotion. I would typically lift my nose at such a display but I find myself unable to. Only three months ago _I_ was brought to tears by his pleading when he saw me on that rooftop. I faked a suicide to save his life. His observation skills being next to non-existent means that he has not worked that out and will need me to explain it to him.

"What have you been doing since my absence?" I ask, hoping the tears will stop.

John stiffens, presumably at my choice of word.

"As if you don't know?"

I keep my face carefully blank.

"I'm sure you've had someone spying on me. I'm not stupid, and you're notorious for keeping your claws dug to the bone."

He has me there. As he was my closest companion, it is not surprising he could work out some things about my nature.

"I haven't installed security cameras in the flat. I don't know your every move."

John shakes his head, a strange smile on his face. Then it disappears.

"You know, at your...funeral, I...I asked you not to be dead. I willed it, even. I couldn't believe it, not even the sight of...who's body was that, anyway? I suppose it doesn't matter. You wanted to fool me. You were successful. Now you're here to...what? Drag me off on another case? Go back to normal?"

Thankfully, John stops talking. He makes an inhuman noise with his vocal chords; I could relate it to a strangled canine. Canis apolloniensis? No, extinct. Canis adustus? Perhaps.

"Are you even listening to me?" John snaps.

"Of course. I am giving you as much attention as I possibly can," I reply curtly.

"Which means very little, if at all," he says bitterly.

"Wrong. I have been paying attention to everything you have said. You're in emotional pain, and in shock, so a lot of what you've said hasn't made much sense, but no matter. I have the general impression that you're upset with me."

"I bloody well am mad at you - !"

I hold a finger up to still his interjection.

"John, I did what I had to do to save your life. Moriarty gave me no choice."

A silence too strong for description passes between us. All that can be heard is the faint sound of traffic on the street outside. I am itching to get up and go look, but the socially polite thing to do is to stay here and complete this absolutely awful discourse.

"You did this for me?"

He says it so quietly I almost don't catch it. His wording isn't ideal, but even I don't have the heart to deny him of this comfort.

"Yes."

"Oh."

Silence. I can't really bear to sit still anymore, so I stand and go to the window, hoping John doesn't take offense. The street is mostly unchanged since last I looked upon it from this angle, and I watch a handful of frightfully boring people walk about before going back to the chair. I don't have a chance to sit because John stands and grabs my arm.

I look at him in question, and he hesitates. His eyes sweep over my face, his mouth parted once again. I hold the insult inside because I don't think it's an appropriate time.

And then, he hugs me. I am not entirely comfortable with this contact, but I don't move because I sense that John needs this for some reason. I try to remember the last time I was hugged, but honestly can't. I have never understood the appeal of wrapping one's arms around another's torso for comfort.

My arms are hanging stiffly to my sides, and with great effort, I return the hug as naturally as I can. I pat his back, hoping he'll end it soon. This has gone on far too long for my taste.

And finally, after exactly thirty-two seconds of unnecessary human contact, he removes himself and stands up straight.

"Welcome back, Sherlock."

()()()

_One-shot. Thanks for reading, drop a comment if you're so inclined._


End file.
